Gin Palace 02 - The Bone Orchard

clients. I’d like to hire someone I trust.”
    “What makes you think you can trust me?”
    “You didn’t jump at the money. That says a lot to me.”
    “I wish I could help you. Really.”
    “You’re a dishwasher, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How much do you make an hour?”
    “I make minimum wage.”
    “Do you get by on that?”
    “No. But I sleep at night. And come bedtime, I’m alive. I like that.”
    “I’ll throw in another ten thousand dollars in stocks. I’ll have my broker put together a prime portfolio, something for your retirement.”
    “I’m trying to be polite here.”
    He took a step forward. “Mac, my daughter is dead, and the police are saying it was an accident, but I don’t believe it was an accident.”
    “I’m sorry, but it’s none of my business.”
    “Then why did you jump into that freezing pond and try to save her?”
    I said nothing.
    “You went into the water and you pulled her out of the car. You tried to revive her. You almost drowned trying to save her, from what I hear.”
    “Who told you that?”
    “Elizabeth Cole.”
    “Lizzie?”
    “Yeah. When I heard you were friends with Augie Hartsell I asked some people who was friends with his daughter. Lizzie sold you out for five hundred bucks.”
    “She got you on that one, man, because it never happened.”
    “She said you almost froze to death running from the scene. I won’t say anything to the police or the papers. Like I said, I think the police are the problem.”
    I looked at the floor, at a point about halfway between us.
    “Please help me, Mac.”
    I’d been skirting the issue, but now there was no avoiding it.
    “What is it you want?”
    “The morning after Amy was killed someone ransacked her room. They were obviously looking for something.”
    “Do you know what?”
    “No. But I know who it was.”
    “You know or you think you know?”
    “I’m fairly certain I know. I lied when I said the worst thing you could say about Amy was that she took my Corvette when I was out of town. The worst thing about her, as far as I was concerned, was that she was involved with a man much too old for her. An adjunct professor at the college. Concannon. Phil Concannon. He lives out there by that pond. He’s a married man. I suspect he was searching through her room for something that would connect him with her. The room was a shambles. The police didn’t seem to take much interest in that, either.”
    “They are rather indifferent by nature, it seems. So what is it you want me to do?”
    “Find out who killed her. Find out who killed my daughter. Find out why. You saw her, you know how beautiful she was. Someone just blew her out like a candle, and I want to know who and I want to know why. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
    “I don’t want your money.”
    “No, sorry, this is supposed to be a job for you, not a hobby. I want you out there, around the clock, if necessary. I insist on paying you. I’ll cover your expenses, I’ll give you money to buy information. You do an honest job and you can keep the ten grand, whether you find something or not. You find out who killed her and why and you get another ten in cash and the ten in stocks. You kill the son of a bitch, and I’ll give you a hundred grand.”
    I could almost hear the alarms in my head. “Put your hands up,” I said abruptly.
    “What?”
    I started toward him, fast. “Put your hands up.”
    Uncertain, he stood there frozen. When I reached him I threw his arms up and started to frisk him. I was searching for a wire, a bug, a microphone, anything. I handled him rough. I checked him thoroughly but found nothing. I still didn’t trust or like this. We stood face to face. He was waiting for me to speak. I took my time, studying his face.
    “First, I’m not killing anyone. So start dealing with that right now. Nor will I tell you who killed your daughter, if I find out who, if your plan is to kill him. That would make me an accessory. Do you understand?”
    “I want justice for my daughter.”
    “Then I’ll try to get enough evidence to get whoever killed her put away for a long time.”
    “I told you, I don’t trust the police.”
    “Then you and your lawyer take it to the FBI. That’s what it’s there for. Are we in agreement on this?”
    “Yes.” He looked at me. “Why are you doing this? I mean, I’m paying you, don’t even think about not taking it. But your clearly not doing it for the money. So why are you doing